Afterimage
by zerofret
Chapter 7: Duplicate Print
Stan woke up the next day at about 11:30 a.m. He was still lying on the living room couch, wearing the same clothes he'd had on yesterday. His arm ached dully; it wasn't too bad, but it would be tender for awhile. On the TV, a morning talk show duo were bantering back and forth cheerily with one another. He had missed last night's news, he realized, but he had slept off the shock of yesterday's events long enough that it was already nearly time for some mid-day news.
Rubbing at his bleary eyes, he shuffled into the kitchen and started the coffee maker. Then he washed up and put on some fresh clothes. Upon returning to the kitchen, he opened a cupboard and gazed sleepily at the contents within, trying to remember what it was he had wanted in there. He was reaching toward a can when he felt a soft but solid blow against his lower legs that caused him to sway and bump up against the counter.
"Hey, come on, Dew," he protested drowsily, "illegal tackle. Fair catch rule in effect."
He waved the can of cat food at him. The hungry feline started to weave a complex figure eight pattern around Stan's ankles, anticipating its breakfast. Stan popped the lid on the tin and was just about to dish out some cat food, when a powerful feeling of déjà vu suddenly swept over him. Fast on its heels came an equally strong sense of uneasiness. It made him pause momentarily.
"This is exactly the way it happened the other time," he said wonderingly. Dewey fixed him with an eternally wise look that seemed to say that he had figured that out long before the slow-witted human had; he returned his expectant gaze to the tin of cat food. Stan counted off the series of this morning's activities that paralleled those of ten years ago:
"I woke up wearing the same clothes I had on the night before. I slept through for twelve hours. I woke up with my arm hurting…but at least my head isn't, this time. I started the coffee maker…washed up and changed my clothes…" He looked down at Dewey. "…and fed you. Then I watched the news to try to get an explanation for everything that had happened. And that's exactly how things are starting out today."
Seeing that Dewey was thoroughly unimpressed by this revelation, he hurriedly set down some food. As the cat started to smack noisily and contentedly at the food, Stan added in a mock defensive tone: "If you had any idea what I was saying, you'd think this is weird, too."
He also knew the reason for his uneasy feeling. Ten years ago, when he had watched the news the day after, it hadn't been good. So far this day was echoing the events of that "day after" a decade ago. And he was just about to watch today's news. After making a coffee, he went back to the TV, bracing himself for what he might hear and see.
It was just as well that he had missed the news last night, because it quickly became clear that the stakes had already been raised again since then. Some of the key information would have been reported in too late to make last night's late news. Stan was thunderstruck right from the first news item. The anchorwoman started the newscast by describing scenes of carnage the likes of which hadn't been seen since…well, since May of 1984, Stan thought.
"Topping our news this midday," she began, "a grisly double homicide in a suburban Reseda home. Early this morning, police were called to the home of Todd and Janelle Voight, on South Almond Avenue. A neighbour of the Voights spotted the couple's dog lying in a pool of blood in its kennel. He knocked at the door of the home to alert the Voights, but he failed to get a response. He then called 911. When police arrived on the scene, they found the couple inside the home; both were deceased. Police say stab wounds appear to be the cause of death, but autopsies will be performed to determine whether or not other factors were involved. Officers at the scene seized a large, vegetable-chopping knife that was found on the kitchen counter; investigators haven't commented on whether they believe it to be the crime weapon. Witnesses say that a police officer was seen at the front door of the Voight home yesterday afternoon, but nothing unusual was heard or seen during the night."
The camera cut to footage taken at the scene, in front of the house; a middle-aged man appeared on the screen. A caption at the bottom of the screen read "Neighbour Called 911". He was shaking his head in disbelief.
"This is so tragic. I can't imagine who would do this. The Voights were good neighbours, good people. And Max, well, he'd never hurt anybody. I walked him now and then myself. I don't know the Voights' foster son too well. He's got a few family problems, I guess, but I'm sure he's a good enough boy. Plays his music too loud outside sometimes." He chuckled. "But you know kids. This is going to be devastating for him," the neighbour finished, his brief smile vanishing.
The anchorwoman continued: "Police are now trying to locate the Voight's foster son. The ten year old boy is the only other resident of the home."
Stan could feel the hair on the back of his neck rising. The police didn't suspect John, did they? He knew that when John and Red had left the Voight home the previous day, both Todd and Janelle were very much alive. He had seen them himself. But the next time he'd seen John, a cop had been in hot pursuit of him. About two hours had elapsed in that time. Stan couldn't imagine, though, that John had gone back home for any of that time. He hadn't come for his dirt bike; it had been in the parking garage the whole time.
"An update now on our top story from last night, which also comes from Reseda. Chaos erupted in the Galleria Shopping Mall yesterday when two men engaged in a gunfight in a maintenance hallway. A maintenance worker was fatally wounded when he was caught in the crossfire. The fight resulted in one man being thrown against a plate glass store front window. The window shattered, causing him to fall out onto the mall walkway, but he didn't appear to be seriously injured. All other injuries reported were minor. The conflict then spilled out onto the street, resulting in a bizarre high speed chase that reportedly involved three vehicles."
"Police haven't commented on this incident yet, as the chase involved one of their own officers. They are also choosing not to comment at this time on whether the incident is connected to the South Almond Avenue murders. Witnesses say that an LAPD officer forcibly commandeered a tractor trailer cab. With no apparent warning given, he opened the door, pulled the driver out of the cab, and took control of the vehicle. He appeared to be pursuing a young boy who was on a dirt bike. The chase reached dangerously high speeds, and caused a number of other vehicle collisions."
"The truck later burst through an overpass railing, and plummeted twelve feet into a flood control channel. Some reports indicate that this may have been done intentionally. Incredibly, however, the officer continued the pursuit. At this point, a third vehicle – a motorcycle – had become part of the chase, as well. Ultimately, the chase came to a fiery end when the officer lost control of the truck. It crashed into a bridge abutment, and exploded moments later. There is no word as yet on the condition of the officer. The two cyclists fled the scene."
As she spoke, telling images appeared on the screen…images that filled in many of the blanks for Stan. A maintenance hallway with some bullet holes in the wall. A wall in the same corridor that had been broken through right into one of the stores. The jagged remains of a shattered store front window. Hundreds of shards of glass glittering on the mall walkway in front of the store. And finally, a flaming, twisted metal heap – that had once been a truck – crushed up against a bridge abutment.
The images explained a lot, but they didn't explain everything. It was clear now why the T-800's jacket had been shredded with bullet holes; obviously, they had been freshly put there just before Stan had encountered it. But by whom? The cop? It was equally evident why the cyborg had been dropping blood spattered glass as it walked. But the images didn't explain why one whole section of wall in that hallway had buckled. And while the camera shot of the burning truck showed where Officer Austin's chase had ended – perhaps tragically – it didn't explain the entire outcome. The cyclists had fled the scene. This statement still rang ominously in Stan's ears; that didn't sound too good for John. The crash would have put the cop out of the picture. And John's little Honda 125 would have been no match for the T-800's Harley; he wouldn't have been able to outpace it for very long. And once the Terminator caught up to him… Stan felt a lump rising in his throat. He genuinely felt scared for the kid.
It seemed there were yet more surprises lying in wait for him, though. "And the hits just keep on coming," he sighed resignedly, as he watched. Like a heavy blow to the body, he thought. And the next one was coming fast.
"…were also called to Pescadero State Hospital in Chino yesterday, in response to a breakout from the maximum security wing. Sarah Connor, who is serving time in the institution for her attempt to blow up the Cyberdyne Systems building in Irvine eighteen months ago, used armed force, and also took a hostage to aid in her escape. LAPD detectives say that the elaborate escape plan was two-pronged. Connor worked from the inside, while an armed accomplice – a man known to police – broke in from outside of the facility. They fled the scene in a stolen vehicle. A police officer briefly gave chase on foot, but he broke off his pursuit once the vehicle started to outdistance him. Connor and her accomplice remain at large at this hour. Police have posted an All Points Bulletin in an effort to apprehend the couple."
"This raises questions about the level of security at this facility, and about the relative safety of the surrounding community. Joining us now from his office at Pescadero is noted criminal psychologist Dr. Peter Silberman. Good afternoon, Dr. Silberman."
Silberman appeared on the screen wearing a forced smile. "Good afternoon, Lisa," he greeted the anchorwoman amiably. "Nice to be with you."
Stan peered at the screen closely. Something didn't feel right here already. The doctor was trying to look both pleasant and authoritative, but there was a haunted look in his hollowed eyes that suggested something more akin to terror. What had happened at that place yesterday? Was he being held responsible for Sarah's escape? Perhaps the good doctor's ass is on the line, Stan mused to himself. Then another possibility occurred to him: Silberman might be fearing the wrath of Greg Simmons. The Cyberdyne owner would be none too pleased that Sarah Connor had slipped her chains. The doc might be anticipating the release of some of that blackmail material Cyberdyne had in its possession.
"Doctor, could you start by explaining to us the nature of Sarah Connor's psychological disorder?"
Silberman favoured the viewing audience with a superior smile. For effect, he paused before answering, sanctimoniously folding his hands in front of him and resting them on his desk. As his arms came in contact with the desk top, there was a loud "clunk". The camera pulled back to reveal a cumbersome cast on his arm. Silberman seemed momentarily flustered, but he regained his composure quickly.
"It's actually a rather complex syndrome involving many different elements, paranoia and delusion, among others. Under my care – and with treatment techniques that I've created – Sarah was making very positive progress. But it would be far too difficult for me to fully explain the disorder in terms the layman could understand."
He smiled condescendingly. Having told the anchorwoman absolutely nothing except how brilliant he was – far too brilliant for the program's viewers to keep up with – she started to look slightly annoyed. He had given her nothing to build on. She adopted an "Okay, Mr. Big, we can play hardball" attitude, and went directly into tough investigative journalist mode.
"How is it that Ms. Connor's 'very positive progress' came to such an abrupt halt?" she asked.
"Well, like many disorders – both physical and psychological – response to treatment isn't continual forward progress. Setbacks are to be expected. Two steps forward, one step back," he explained, in a tone usually reserved for very young children. "But looking at the big picture, the patient is progressing."
"Then yesterday would have been quite a setback," the newscaster deadpanned.
"Er…yes," Silberman conceded, not quite sure if he was being ridiculed.
"I understand, doctor, that you, in fact, were the hostage taken by Ms. Connor."
The doctor responded haltingly, apparently suspicious of where this line of questioning was going. "Yes," he said uncertainly.
"That must have been a traumatic experience."
"We're fully trained in how to handle such incidents," he assured her.
"What would cause her to turn on her own doctor?"
Silberman wasn't prepared for the directness of the question; he started to flounder. "I'm really not at liberty to…" He stopped, then tried again. "Doctor-patient confidentiality forbids me to reveal too much about the case." But he forged on, nonetheless. "A number of the inmat-- patients in our facility are very disturbed individuals. Sarah is one of them. There isn't always a logical explanation for their actions."
He tapped his fingertips nervously on his desktop, then darted a quick glance over his shoulder. He's checking to see if any other patient might be sneaking up behind him, Stan realized. It was strangely humorous…and creepy. Still, the newscaster persisted; obviously, she felt that there might be a little more to it than that.
"I see," she replied dryly. "How is it that a patient was even in a position to be able to take a hostage?"
"I'm afraid Sarah took us by surprise," the doctor admitted.
The anchorwoman looked satisfied. "Evidently. But if the patients' rooms are securely locked at night, how was this able to happen?"
"Sarah had devised a very elaborate plan," Silberman sputtered. He was definitely rattled now.
"Yes, of course," Lisa-the-anchorwoman replied smugly. She had the self-important psychologist on the run, and she was enjoying it. "Reports have it that the 'elaborate plan' – in its entirety – consisted of…one paperclip." She held up a single paperclip for emphasis; she had come prepared for this guy. Stan knew this had to be an exaggeration, but he admitted it made for good TV.
Before Silberman could even protest that there had been more to it than that, the newscaster launched her final barrage.
"When this incident was happening, at least one guard wasn't at his post. And one orderly was not on his assigned rounds. How does Pescadero account for this?"
"There is a good reason for both of—" Silberman began. But she cut him off.
"It was left to one lone LAPD officer to pursue, and to try to apprehend, Connor and her accomplice. Shouldn't the facility's administration have to answer for such lax security?"
At the mention of the police officer, the doctor's demeanor suddenly changed noticeably. Stan watched in amazement as Silberman came fully unraveled right in front of a TV audience of thousands.
"I know what I saw," he muttered under his breath. His eyes had taken on a vacant, glassy look. He seemed to be seeing something that was visible to no one except himself.
"Excuse me?" The newscaster sounded confused.
"Come with me if you want to live."
"I'm sorry, doctor, but I'm not sure what point you're addressing."
But the doctor seemed not to hear her; he was drifting further within himself.
"The bars…right through the bars…"
With the camera still on Silberman, the anchorwoman could be heard in the background. "Go to the clip…the clip," she was urging in a loud whisper. The camera shot returned to her, and she smiled stiffly.
"Thank you for being with us today, doctor."
Silberman appeared on the screen for a final time. He seemed to be totally unaware that he was being spoken to.
"…kill us all…"
The feed cut off abruptly. The newscaster tried on a pleasant, everything-is-under-control smile. "That was, uh, Dr. Peter Silberman, a criminal psychologist at Pescadero State Hospital. We have a second report from our crime bureau."
A pre-recorded tape, the clip she had been urging them to go to, started to roll. A man, whose face had been hideously smashed up, was being interviewed. He had chosen to be identified only by his first name. Print at the bottom of the screen read: Doug – Pescadero Orderly. He was trying, with limited success, to speak through swollen lips and a broken nose. He nodded in confirmation when asked if Sarah Connor had caused his injuries.
She sure didn't do that with just a paperclip, Stan thought.
"I don't understand it. It's shocking and disappointing," the orderly was saying sadly. "We give the patients here the best care that we possibly can. We treat them like family. Both Dr. Silberman and I have had very good rapport with Sarah. She trusts us implicitly, and she knows that we always have her best interests at heart. But the patients in this wing of the hospital can be unpredictable. Sometimes things like this will happen no matter how well we treat them." He tried for a sincere looking smile, but it quickly dissolved into a grimace of pain.
Stan, however, wasn't buying what the orderly was selling. "Yeah, I'll just bet Sarah is your gooood friend," he drawled softly, as he noted the extent of the man's injuries. The raw viciousness of the attack led Stan to believe that a personal score had been settled. A little payback for previous "services" rendered, maybe? But seeing the condition that both Doug and Silberman were in forced him to consider carefully what Sarah might be capable of. No one had said that Sarah was responsible for the cast on the doctor's arm, but Stan felt that it was a pretty safe guess.
So…could Sarah have been responsible for the double homicide at the Voight residence? If she had gone to such violent extremes to break out of Pescadero, might she have gone to similar lengths in order to retrieve her son from the Voights, as well? His mind balked at the idea.
But he didn't have enough details about the timing of all of these events to know if that was even possible. What order had they happened in? Of course, Sarah could be ruled out as a suspect in the Voight murders if they had occurred before her breakout. But, he thought in frustration, I don't know if they did. The news report hadn't mentioned what time the Pescadero breakout had happened.
Then the knot in his stomach loosened slightly, as he remembered a detail of the crime scene that the news report had mentioned. That one detail convinced Stan that Sarah was not responsible for the gruesome act. It wasn't proof, no, but it was good enough for him.
"The dog," he stated, quietly but emphatically. Even the Voight's dog hadn't escaped the killer's wrath. It had been locked in its kennel – a threat to no one – so it hadn't been killed in self defense. It had been killed for no apparent reason…maybe just to keep it quiet. And that didn't sound like something Sarah would do. Not even the reinvented Sarah Connor would do that. Especially not her, Stan thought. The information on Alex' computer disk had indicated that Sarah, despite all her transience, always owned a dog. The information contained references to the fact that Sarah had been told that dogs could detect Terminators. It raised the concept of "man's best friend" to an entirely new level. Stan felt sure that the importance of dogs in the bleak future that Sarah believed in would carry symbolic weight for her in the present. It was unlikely that she would harm one without very good cause. Stan was comforted by the realization that he truly believed that. And in his view, it ruled out Sarah as a suspect in the Voight killings.
Sarah had rarely been in need of a dog as much as she was right now. There were worse things than Pescadero State Hospital. Having escaped her prison, she could very well come face to face with her worst nightmare once again. There was a Terminator on the loose in L.A. Did she even know it? It wasn't likely. She had been sequestered in maximum security at Pescadero; the patients there probably weren't exposed to anything "upsetting" or "agitating"…like the daily news. Sarah would have no knowl—
The picture that flashed onto the screen now stopped him in mid-thought; his eyes widened in surprise. Two different photos were being shown side by side. One was a picture of Sarah Connor; the other – incredibly – was a photo of the T-800 infiltrator.
"Police have released these photos. Connor and her accomplice fled the scene in a security guard's cruiser. Police speculate that they will now be heading south. Any sighting of the stolen vehicle or the fugitives should be phoned into the Los Angeles Police Department immediately."
For Stan, it was as if someone had overturned his chessboard just when he had his strategy mapped out. If seeing the T-800 the day before had shocked him into realizing that his information was already outdated, then he was beyond confused now. Sarah and a Terminator…together! The T-800 was the "accomplice"? It was surreal.
"…considered armed and extremely dangerous. They absolutely should not be approached for any reason. Connor's accomplice is believed to be the man still wanted for the 1984 slayings of seventeen police officers at the West Highland police station. He is known to have shot a guard to gain entry to the Pescadero grounds, and he is a suspect in the murder of an LAPD motorcycle officer. The officer was found, already deceased, near the facility's grounds."
This shed a whole new light on everything. Or it clouds the issue even further, is more like it, Stan brooded. He's dangerous all right. Or rather, it's dangerous. The million dollar question was: why was it not dangerous to Sarah? Ten years ago it – or one just like it – would stop at nothing to end her life. Now it was her partner in crime; it was assisting her. The snow has got to be falling in hell, he decided, thoroughly bemused.
If it was in league with Sarah, then it seemed likely that it would mean no harm to John, either. Stan started to form a theory. It was a Terminator; that meant it had to have some kind of target. As he looked at the T-800's impassive face on the TV screen, he had a strong sense that he was looking at the Voights' killer. If the T-800 was aiding Sarah – as hard as that notion was to swallow – maybe that was one way that it had "helped" her. These cyborg things weren't exactly noted for their subtlety. Perhaps killing the Voights had been its heavy handed way of trying to retrieve John for Sarah. The Voights might have simply been unfortunate and hapless "obstacles" that had found themselves between the machine and its mission objective.
"Reports of a child traveling with the fugitives – possibly Connor's ten year old son – are unconfirmed at this time."
Stan addressed the TV screen, saying softly: "It's like you read my mind." He was satisfied that his theory was holding up. Having dispatched Todd and Janelle – only to find that John wasn't at home – the T-800 would have realized that the act hadn't been necessary at all. This, of course, would have bothered the machine not one bit. After leaving the Voights' house, it had located John at the Galleria. It had given chase, but not for the purpose of terminating John. No, the mission must have been to collect John and take him to Sarah. That way, when Sarah and the T-800 launched the Pescadero breakout, John would already be with them. They wouldn't lose time going to get him. If their plan succeeded, they could head directly south.
Stan thought for a minute or two about what he had pieced together. Then he sighed to himself: Maybe that's right, maybe that's wrong. Who knows? It was exhausting always being a few steps behind, forever playing catch up.
The newscast droned on with more, mostly bad, news. But Stan had stopped listening; he had heard what he wanted to hear. More than he wanted to hear. He continued to sift through the information he had heard, organizing and categorizing it in the hope that answers to his questions would become more apparent. Some of it didn't add up. How could Sarah have launched a "two-pronged" escape plan with anyone, given that she was allowed no contact with people on "the outside"? He gave the matter his full concentration.
"…LAPD officer was fatally assaulted early yesterday morning near the Sixth Street Bridge and Santa Fe. He was last heard from shortly after five o'clock a.m. when he reported an electrical disturbance. Oddly, this was the second such incident of the morning. A similar disturbance was seen near The Corral tavern in Acton. Witnesses reported the strange scene to police who had been called to the restaurant to investigate a motorcycle theft."
"In the Sixth Street bridge incident, Officer Joseph Austin is believed to have been attacked by a single assailant. He died from internal injuries suffered as a result of a single heavy blow to the body. Thirty-four year old Officer Austin was a nine year veteran of the Los Angeles police force."
The words were starting to pierce through Stan's intense concentration. He returned his attention to the news report. Austin? That was the name of the cop that had been chasing John Connor the previous afternoon. He had noticed his name tag. Actually, he had noticed all of his insignia. Austin, Badge #752. He had only noticed – and remembered – the latter because the number matched an apartment address he'd had at one time.
On the screen was a formal portrait of a man wearing an LAPD uniform. The tag pinned to his shirt had the name "Austin" printed on it; his badge number was 752. It was the insignia of the officer he had seen yesterday; everything matched. Everything but the face. Stan was sure that it wasn't the same man. The smiling, personable-looking man on the screen bore no resemblance whatsoever to the grim-faced cop he had seen in the Galleria parking garage. But if the man who had been chasing John wasn't Officer Joe Austin, then who was it?
"Officer Austin is survived by his wife, and their two year old daughter," the newscaster concluded.
Upon hearing that, Stan's stomach did a lazy roll. And he had to admit to himself that he knew the answer to his own question. He knew part of the answer, at least. It was Austin's killer, of course, he surmised. But what did it all have to do with John? Why would a cop killer end up chasing a ten year old boy? Unless…
Two, he thought. Last time there were two. A cyborg assassin and a human protector. It could be the same this time. Maybe the "cop" had meant no harm to John at all. He might have been pursuing John to warn him about – or to protect him from – the Terminator. And if he had traveled back in time from the same brutal future that Reese had come from, he would have been quite prepared to take drastic measures in order to succeed in his mission. If that meant killing a cop and assuming his identity in order to better blend into 1995 L.A., he would be willing to do that. The pieces were starting to fall into place. Yeah, that had to be it.
No. As quickly as his theory had come together, it now crumbled to pieces. No, that can't be it, he corrected himself. The news report had made it clear that the T-800 was traveling with the Connors; it was aiding them. For reasons unknown, it was not a threat to them. That, in turn, meant that no human protector was necessary. Still, Stan had no doubt that the man had been determined to catch John. The issue now was whether his intentions toward John had been for good or for ill. All he knew was that the man wasn't a cop and that he had quite possibly killed a police officer so that he could assume his identity. He was a wild card; Stan felt certain that he figured into things, he just didn't know how.
Stan was also puzzled – even irritated – by one other thing. It caused him to take impulsive action. Sweeping his car keys off of the front hall table, he headed out the door. After driving for half an hour, until he was a good distance from his own home, he started to search for a pay phone. When he spotted one, he parked around the corner and walked back to it. After slipping some coins into it, he dialed a general number for the LAPD. A man answered after the second ring.
"I have a question about that homicide that happened yesterday. The policeman. Austin?" Stan could hear the nervousness in his own voice.
"Do you have some information, sir?" the desk sergeant asked.
"No. A question. I said I have a question!"
Cool it, he warned himself. He tried to reign in his agitation. The sergeant was hesitant, which Stan didn't find surprising at all. He knew that you couldn't just call the police and ask questions about a murder case; they didn't give out that kind of information. He was having second thoughts now, realizing that he was risking coming under serious suspicion himself here. But he felt compelled to continue.
"Sir, perhaps I should put you through to one of our detec—"
"Why aren't you warning the public that someone who murdered a police officer is now out there impersonating that officer?" Stan blurted out.
There was a measured silence, then a baffled: "Sir?"
"I saw the guy. Yesterday. He was wearing Austin's uniform…but he wasn't Austin. I saw the officer's picture on TV today, and I know it was a different guy. So when you found Austin without his uniform on, you must have known that the killer took it. Well, he's out there on the streets wearing it."
Stan could sense that it was startled silence on the other end of the line now.
"But his uniform wasn't mi—" The sergeant cut off his own sentence quickly, if a bit too late. He regrouped and asked Stan, "What makes you think the officer was found without his uniform on?"
In the brief moment of silence that followed, Stan heard an odd series of clicks on the phone line. Then the sergeant said: "I really should put you in touch with one of our—"
"Never mind," Stan replied tersely. He hung up immediately.
But his uniform wasn't missing. That's what the sergeant started to say. It was a lie; it had to be. The uniform had to be missing because he had seen the other man wearing it. They couldn't be both wearing it, complete with all of the official insignia unique to Joseph Austin. That was impossible.
As he stood staring at the phone, he suddenly remembered the clicks he had heard on the line. The sergeant had probably had a detective start to listen in. No doubt the police would want to know how he had come by his information. They had probably been recording his call; they might have been trying to trace it, as well. He took a nervous glance around; it would be best for him to get out of here fast. Fishing a handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped down the phone receiver carefully, then walked rapidly back toward his car.
ooOOoo
Stan had started to feel that nothing could surprise or shock him anymore. He was fully expecting – as he turned on the news the following day – that he'd hear a litany of disastrous events, all of which could be attributed to the T-800. He was right; that was exactly what happened. But this time, Sarah Connor stood alongside the death machine, assisting in – and even initiating – much of the carnage. Stan had expected that when Sarah escaped, she would make for the border as quickly as possible. Instead, she had returned to the scene of her crime. And she had succeeded in completing her unfinished business there.
As Stan stared numbly at the TV screen, watching the raging inferno that had been the Cyberdyne Systems building, mixed feelings roiled within him. Part of him was in a state of utter disbelief. Despite the drastic change she had undergone, it was hard to accept that Sarah Connor, someone he had known personally, could be responsible for such an act. Another part of him felt relief. If everything he had been told was true – everything Alex had told him, all of Sarah's claims – then perhaps he was witnessing nothing less than the saving of the planet's future.
And as the flames engulfed and consumed the building, Stan realized that a considerably darker part of himself felt satisfaction. The shady corporation and its scheming CEO deserved to be brought down. They ruined Sarah. They ran Alex out of the country and into hiding, he thought, with rising hostility. I won't shed any tears for Cyberdyne, that's for sure.
But the feeling was short lived, and Stan learned quickly that there were things that could still shock him to the core. The newscast revealed that Miles Dyson, Cyberdyne's top researcher, had died in the assault on the company's headquarters. Dyson had been shot; he had still been in the lab when the building had erupted. It was believed that Connor and her accomplice had coerced him into gaining them entry to the Cyberdyne building. There was evidence of heavy gunfire at his Laguna home. His work records had been destroyed, and his family was missing. All of this did hit Stan hard. He had liked Miles a great deal, having come to know him from his annual ball game outings in the Cyberdyne corporate box. He had met Tarissa and the kids, as well, and he now feared for their safety. Surely, Sarah wouldn't have done anything to them. But how able was she to control this Terminator thing?
One lasting image from the news report nagged at Stan. It was a camera shot of the Cyberdyne building, taken minutes before it had exploded. The front window pane of an upper floor had been broken out. The hulking figure of the Terminator stood framed in the jagged glass; it wielded a massive mini-gun effortlessly, as if it were weightless. It opened fire on the parking lot, methodically strafing the haphazardly parked police cruisers below. Police and Special Forces officers could be seen diving for cover frantically, as a blizzard of glass suddenly raged in the warm night air.
There had been no fatalities. That was what the news report had said: not a single death. It didn't make any sense to Stan. What kind of a Terminator was this? These things didn't miss their target very often. They never missed that badly. And Skynet certainly hadn't sent this one on a mission to assassinate cars. It had had the opportunity to take out twice the number of law enforcement officers as the first Terminator had. It could have made the 1984 West Highland Station massacre look like a warm up act.
But it hadn't. Just as it hadn't harmed John when it had caught up to him. Just as it hadn't harmed Sarah when it had located her at Pescadero. And now, at Cyberdyne, it had caused the greatest amount of mayhem possible; but quite intentionally, it had not shot anyone fatally. A kinder, gentler Terminator? Can you say oxymoron? Stan mused sourly. It was one more mystery for him to solve.
There was no denying that there was something very different about this Terminator. It seemed to behave almost as if…as if it has a conscience, Stan marveled. Still, he thoroughly rejected the idea of that being possible. The weapons display had never been intended to harm anyone; its purpose had been to buy Sarah more time in completing her work in the Cyberdyne lab. It had been simply a distraction technique…a totally over-the-top and terror-inducing one, to be sure, but in the end it had been just a means of keeping the police at bay. It was the Terminator's infallible marksmanship that had saved the officers at Cyberdyne; it had chosen not to hit them.
Stan couldn't begin to guess what the motives were for the T-800's behaviour, but he was starting to believe that he knew what the key piece of the puzzle was. The meaning of it, however, was still maddeningly elusive. It was the cop; not just any cop, but the cop. The news report had talked about extraordinary – and highly erratic – actions taken by one LAPD officer in his attempt to apprehend the fugitives. Why he had ridden his motorcycle right into the Cyberdyne building and up several flights of stairs was unclear. What was known, though, was that he had accelerated across an office floor, smashed the bike through a front window, then clung to a nearby hovering helicopter as the bike plunged to the ground. He had then managed to commandeer the helicopter – with one unfortunate soul falling out of it in the process – and he had pursued the escapees in a wild highway chase. Speculation was that the officer had lost control of the bike, causing it to accelerate accidentally. In an unbelievable stroke of good luck, when the bike had come rocketing through the window, the helicopter had been hovering in the right place at the right time.
Stan scoffed in derision at this explanation; it was unbelievable all right. He knew that that wasn't what had happened at all. There had been no luck involved. It had been fully intentional. And the pilot hadn't fallen from the helicopter; surely, he had been "helped". Officer Not-Austin, I presume, he mused, paraphrasing another Stanley. The cop in question was the Austin imposter. Stan felt sure that it had to be. He had pursued John at least once before; clearly, he was still on the chase. And he was willing to go to any lengths to get to him. But why? This man was the key to understanding the new series of events that mirrored those of 1984.
As usual, where Sarah and the T-800 went, chaos followed. The Terminator, Sarah, and John had fled the Cyberdyne site in a SWAT van that was fully stocked with weapons. They had actively engaged in a firefight with the "cop" as they raced along the highway. Their high speed chase had caused a number of other accidents, one of which had included a chemical spill. The details on the news were hazy and incomplete, but apparently the chase had come to an end in a steel mill. That was where a liquid nitrogen spill had occurred, when a Cryoco Company tanker truck had overturned and crashed. The rest of the chase had played out in the depths of the steel mill. The outcome was unknown.
All the police could report was that Sarah Connor, her accomplice, and her son had already fled the premises by the time officers had arrived on the scene. They also had no official comment in regard to witness statements that claimed that a single LAPD officer had crashed both a helicopter and a tanker truck.
Stan was coming to a conclusion that would have seemed too bizarre to consider, at one time. He made a mental checklist. The "cop" had run a semi cab off of an overpass into a flood control channel. He had crashed the cab into a bridge abutment, causing a spectacular and fiery wreck. He had jumped a motorcycle out of an upper story window. Finally, he had indeed crashed both a helicopter and a chemical filled tanker truck, within minutes of each other. And incredibly, he had walked away from all of it. He seemed to have more lives than a room full of cats. This man wasn't just an imposter. It went well beyond that. Not only was he "not Austin"; he was also not human.
Again Stan found himself thinking, Last time there were two… One Terminator. One Protector. This time, the T-800 was working with Sarah and John, and it appeared to be protecting them. Was it possible then that it was the cop who was the Terminator, a wolf in sheep's clothing? Maybe it was a Terminator model even more advanced than the T-800, sent by Skynet to this time period to target John. Perhaps the entire nightmare was playing out all over again. He sighed heavily. If anyone knew I was thinking this kind of thing, they'd give me Sarah's room at Pescadero.
The police had made one final, cryptic comment about their investigation at the steel mill. They said that they had removed some rather "unusual" evidence from the scene. They believed that the item they found would aid in their further investigation.
"Let me guess," Stan had commented wryly, talking to his TV. He had been unable to shake the ominous sense of déjà vu that had come over him yesterday. "You found part of a robot in a hydraulic press, right?"
ooOOoo
In the few days after, there were no sightings of the fugitives reported in the news. They had effectively vanished into the ether. This surprised Stan not one bit. He knew that Sarah, being ever resourceful, would go to ground like a wily fox. She would then rely on her extensive network of contacts to quietly spirit her away to safety. She had probably long since gotten her motley trio across the border.
But if the T-800 was rather conspicuous even in Los Angeles, Stan could only imagine what they might make of it in some small Mexican village. A smile crossed his face at the thought. And what did a Terminator do after its mission was accomplished? Get an office job? Shut down and moonlight as a coat rack? Stan chuckled to himself as he considered the possibilities. But he had no way of knowing whether its mission had actually been accomplished or not. It might be ongoing. And he didn't even know if the T-800 was with Sarah and John still. It all depended on what had happened in the steel mill. Again and again, his thoughts returned to the comment the police had made about finding unusual evidence in the steel mill. Could it be that they really had found part of a destroyed Terminator? It wasn't beyond the realm of possibility, because it wouldn't be the first time.
But perhaps the most frustrating result of the previous few days' events was that Stan hadn't gotten to talk to John. He hadn't managed to get the video or the computer disk to him. And now John and Sarah were gone; the evidence he possessed couldn't help them. Maybe it didn't matter, though. They might be in possession of the best piece of evidence of all. A walking, talking piece of evidence that was outside of Cyberdyne's – and apparently Skynet's – control.
But Stan still found it hard to believe that Sarah could ever trust the cyborg, or let down her guard while it was around. There was too much history there. Surely, theirs had to be an alliance of necessity, nothing more.
Maybe, he thought, when there's something even worse chasing you down, you'll make a pact with the devil you know.
He decided that his next step would be to try to acquaint himself with the devil he didn't know. But, unbeknownst to Stan, he himself was in the crosshairs, having become someone's mission objective.
xxx (End Chapter 7) xxx